New note entitled the feeling entitled to happiness isle. I'm a futurist. It's futile this feeling the morning is peeling I've lost the feeling in both arms. Both in and out.
I shake about.
I shake up.
I break down.
I wake up.
The sunshine some shines through the window. Sometime I think the feeling is futile. Sometimes the times change with ritual. With which witch is habitual?
Sounds good.
You say.
But then again...
I can't hear the words cause where were you when you said it? I throw my head at it. That's a fat lip had bit bad habit. I re writ then re write it. I see fit and then fight it.
I can't cry no more...
As the sun fully rises it dries up my pores.
I think the future is coming.
Then I take off.
The other way running.
To your smile.
Swim through your tears for miles to find that happiness isle island. I landed it. Landed on it. A jump and a twist two handed it. I wanna vomit.
I bend backwards then break my back.
Lack of words.
Attack in thirds.
And now I'm broken.
At the very least I have spoken.
Out spoken. I give to her.
Everyday I am broken.
I live and learn.
If the bear I am poking, I infer the spirit of a sleeping tiger.
The merit alone will neither console me nor con the soul out of me.
I keep my leap In reasonable bounds.
Until I am found out.
Now the sun sets.
Sun setting.
Then I forget.
Forgetting.
Setting the seen to a past tense motion to avoid a commotion I invent apathy erosion.
We all have to sleep sometime.
Goodnight I say to the horses of dawn.
I count the jumping fawns.
And we all move along.
Sleep.
Happiness isle.
